Page 26 of The Art of Exiley

A couple of corridors and a few calming breaths later, we arrive at another empty train platform.

“Welcome to the Atlas,” Michael says, gesturing toward the stretch of track in front of us, “a highly efficient maglev train system that connects all of Maker society.” Opaque glass walls block off the track in either direction, so I’m not sure how it leads anywhere.

“Maglev? Like magnetic levitation?” I read an article to Grandfather a few months ago about investors throwing money at Ozymandias Tech for a magnetic levitation project.

“Yes. The provincials are catching up with this technology. It allows for smooth travel at astonishing speeds.”

The climate in here is comfortable, and Michael removes his coat. He has a smart-looking cravat tied around his neck, tucked into a formal jacket that reaches his knees. Well, hello there. There’s no denying that this whole vintage professorial vibe works for him. Works for me.

“Ah, here we go,” he says, and I turn to see a train entering the station through a round entrance that has opened in the wall. “Airlocks,” Michael explains. “By reducing the air in the tunnels, there’s less drag on the train, allowing for greater speed.”

The train looks like a giant bronze bullet. It stops in front of us with silent grace, and numerous doors slide open. We enter, and the inside is even more magnificent. The walls are polished cherrywood, and there are couches and chairs all upholstered in jeweled-toned velvets. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling.

Michael settles onto an ocean-blue divan, and I sigh into a deep red winged chair as I continue to take in my surroundings. With the changing light through the window, I realize we’ve been moving for a few moments already.

“If we’re going as fast as you say, how come I don’t feel it at all?” I ask in amazement.

Michael grins so wide that my own cheeks ache. “Welcome to the possibilities of a world where everyone devotes their lives to creativity and innovation,” he says.

Do they really? I’m curious to see how ideal this Maker lifestyle actually is, beyond the advantages they have purely as a result of hoarding their resources.

Michael continues. “The Atlas may not transport anywhere near millions a day, but it can get you from New York City to the Globe Theatre in less time than it takes to performHamlet.”

Okay. That’s pretty mind blowing. I wonder when it will hit me that this is all real.

My attention catches on two people sitting together a few seats away from us. One is a woman with an intricately braided hairstyle and a beaded bodice with puffed sleeves, but instead of a sweeping skirt as might be expected, the bodice is tucked into jeans that she’s paired with tall riding boots. The man next to her has on a leather jacket over a high-necked blouse and voluminous short pants with tights, and combat boots. I bite my lip to keep from gasping. They look uh-maze-ing. The clash of styles is, somehow, incredibly chic. A blend of classic and modern that rivals anything I’ve seen during New York Fashion Week. I’m dying to take a picture of the woman’s hairstyle so I can try it on myself.

“Are my clothes not going to fit in?” I ask Michael, looking again at his long jacket, then back to the beautifully dressed couple, and then at my own jeans and hoodie ensemble that is my go-to most of the time.

“Don’t worry. Maker fashion is varied enough that whatever you have will be fine.” He looks at his clothes with mild distaste. “This is faculty dress code. Anyone not on duty wears what they want.”

Right. He’sfaculty.

And a distraction from my reason for being here.

“Can I explore a bit?” I ask, getting up from the chair. I should investigate more of the train. Espionage and all that.

“Sure. I’ll show you around.” He starts to unfold his long limbs.

“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “You’ve been shuffling me around all day. I can wander on my own.” Then, to be safe, I add, “Plus, I need to use the bathroom.”

Ugh. Why did I say that? Now he must think I always need the bathroom. He’s gonna think I have stomach issues and start associating me with diarrhea.

“I have a small bladder,” I clarify, then immediately regret it.

Shut up, Ada.

He clears his throat, settling back down. “There’s a lavatory through there.” He indicates the adjoining car, and I grab my bag and scurry through the door, my face aflame.

I take my time exploring the train. Each car has its own distinct personality. There’s a café car with a beautiful wood bar and candlelit tables, and even a library car with shelves of books and comfy reading nooks. I take advantage of the emptiness of the library and fish out my cell phone. I want to see how far out I can still get service. As I wake the screen, the last bar is just blinking out. No service, no internet, no GPS.

I’m officially on my own.

I type up some quick notes with details of the train station and the train itself so I don’t forget, then stow my phone back in its hiding place and go to poke around more.

Near the end of the train, I enter a car not so different from where I left Michael, but the decor is darker and more severe, almost military in style. It’s empty but for two boys. One looks younger, with shaggy hair and splotchy skin. He’s wearing sweatpants—which makes me feel a lot better about my own clothes—and he’s fast asleep with his legs propped up on a teardrop-shaped instrument case. The other boy is seated at a desk writing with a fountain pen on parchment, and—

This. This is what I had expected people from Utopia to look like. He’s the type of exquisite specimen that I have rarely lain eyes upon in real life. His hair is a brassy shade of blond pulled into a short ponytail. The slope of his nose and the angle of his jaw are perfectly proportioned and might just as well be chiseled from stone in a museum. Izzy can call me thirsty all shewants for having a new crush every semester, but with Michael off the table, I deserve some eye candy. Not that this candy will ever be on the menu—I know out-of-my-league when I see it. I shouldn’t ogle him, but I think it’s fair to say that there’s a certain tier of attractiveness that is so unattainable it excuses company manners.

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